


Merchants of the Silk Road

by itstonedme



Series: Haremverse [4]
Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Haremverse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2013-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 11:42:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/722895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itstonedme/pseuds/itstonedme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haremverse AU.  For those not familiar with this universe, this story can stand alone.  Warning: non-con.  Two dusty and dirty old men hear Elijah sing and it is anything but pretty.<br/>Backstory: An undetermined sultanate during the Middle Ages.  Elijah is 18 and in servitude.  Orlando is 24 and a sultan's son. Elijah was bought for his musical talents to serve in the harem.  Life there, however, was difficult for him.  One night, while enjoying the pleasures of the harem, Orlando -- the sultan's son and a prince -- met Elijah and freed him from his joyless life in the harem, moving him into his apartments where he could enjoy greater freedom. They became secret lovers, as if we didn't see that coming.<br/>Author's Notes: It has been four years since the last chapter of this universe was written, but a fragment – dark in nature as you will see – remained and was set aside.  From that fragment of 400 words this story evolved.  Originally posted on LJ <a href="http://itstonedme.livejournal.com/78876.html">here</a>.</p><p>Disclaimer:  A fiction that has cast those named to play these parts in our fantasy, nowhere else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Merchants of the Silk Road

**Part 1**

The courtyard beneath Orlando's palace rooms is alive with activity. Servants rush to prepare for their prince's departure, the muffled sound of soft leather sandals upon the stonework belying the urgency of their tasks. It is still the hour of dawn; the shadows of the rising sun have yet to sink low along the walls in which they work. Saddle bags heavy with papers and manuscripts, inks and pens, gifts and wares and beautiful raiments are being fastened to the pack horses; food stores and water flasks are being readied. Riders have gone ahead by a day so that Orlando's arrival – as well as that of the grand vizier, Ian, who travels with him – may be announced before they are to enter Bayrut on the eastern basin of the great sea known as Baḥr al-Rūm. Orlando's horse has been brought forth, a magnificent ebony stallion with bloodlines so rich its nostrils glisten crimson in the spill of the morning sun. 

Ian stands waiting in the cool morning air, arrayed in his travel clothes, robes of spun silk and linen the colour of the desert's sands. He is patient; their journey will take more than four days of steady riding and he feels no haste to acquaint his backside with the rub of a saddle. His dappled mount stands quietly, a beauty resplendent in a tasseled neck collar and a finely ornamented saddle blanket befitting its owner's stature.

Ian knows that Orlando is not late, just…delayed. There is the matter of Elijah, from whom Orlando must take his leave for the coming half-month. Orlando will be here soon enough.

Within the palace, Orlando stands overlooking the gardens, his arms encircling Elijah who leans back against him, staring too at the grounds through eyes rimmed with sorrow. There are no words. They have passed a difficult night, one filled with entreaties on Elijah's part that he be allowed to accompany Orlando. It has been thus since Orlando told Elijah two days before that he and Ian would be setting forth on a mission of trade to Libnan. There had been no point in telling Elijah sooner. 

"You take Fardin but you do not take me," Elijah had accused, late into the night.

"Fardin attends to me, Elijah, and he is known. I cannot travel without him."

" _I_ could attend to you!"

"You will not," Orlando had said with finality.

It has broken Orlando's heart to have Elijah suffer so, but there is no other course for it. Elijah is his father's servant, a gifted musician purchased and protected by Orlando, but not belonging to him any more than anything belongs to Orlando within the sultanate. Elijah serves at the sultan's pleasure. Orlando is not at liberty to include Elijah on this venture nor would he ask. The fact of their relationship does not need the type of announcement Elijah's inclusion would spell. 

For if Elijah were near him, Orlando would be no more able to stay his hands or his smile or his eyes from betraying them both than a bee would betray a flower. Apart from Orlando's manservant, Fardin – and Ian – no one knows that they are lovers and not even these two know for certain. It is an unspoken, hidden thing.

Thus, Elijah must stay. While Orlando is away, he will move directly under the protection of Orlando's brother Dawud, residing within his palace rooms. For this, Dawud is most grateful, for Elijah's musical charms mean that he may once more fuck with fervor, so entranced does his manhood become whenever he beds one of his wives while Elijah makes music nearby. Elijah is at least grateful that he is not required to return to the harem. But his heart is fearful, both for himself and for Orlando.

"We will be safe," Orlando had told him before the dawn. "You need not worry. Except that my arms may not hold you at night, your life will be as always. And my train is heavily guarded. We travel through friendly lands. Do not fear for either of us."

"You do not know what it is to be without power," Elijah had replied bitterly. "A hundred calamities can happen. You do not know what lies in our paths."

"We will both be safe," Orlando had reassured.

Now they stand silently, Elijah's bundled belongings and zither nearby next to the wall. Orlando leans down and kisses Elijah's temple. "I go now," he says quietly. "I take your heart with me and leave mine in its place."

Elijah does not turn. He feels the arms release him, the heat of Orlando's body leave him, the cadence of footsteps as they fade away. He does not turn. 

 

*

 

Viggo and Sean praise the heavens when the rising sun behind them catches the turrets and tree tops of the city in their path.

They arrive by camelback not long after the break of day, having travelled through the coolness of the desert night. Their journey has been from far to the east, and they are tired. Dust hangs from their beards and eyelashes, from every fold of fabric, for the desert winds had caught their caravan two days out, forcing them to huddle beside their indifferent and recumbent animals, saddle blankets pulled over their heads to muffle the curses they had aimed at the skies. Were it not for the wrappings about their heads and faces, the Arabian sands would have found entry into their very beings, so pervasive has been its presence during their trek across the north desert.

They are traders, known to these parts, travelling a route long mapped. They bring silks and spices, pearls and stones, uncut but of great beauty. Their caravan is spare; only five servants attend to their safety, but they are skilled and silent, deadly outriders with scimitars and lances and fleet-footed stallions. 

They stop at a square near the edge of the city so that they may cleanse at the fountain before presenting themselves to the sultan. Otherwise, he might not know them for who they are. Their wrappings and clothes are shaken free, their animals swept, and all take their fill of the earth's deep water.

By mid-morning, they are upon the palace, making known their names and their business. 

"Viggo! Sean!" the sultan laughs as he comes out of his shaded atria to greet them personally. "May peace be upon you!" 

He is met with returned blessings and broad smiles and hands held up to warn him off. "We are still foul from our travels and would sully you," Sean tells him.

"You smell like men _should_ smell," the sultan roars. "Not like me. I smell like a woman." He pulls each in turn into a crushing embrace. "Maybe you speak the truth," he laughingly reconsiders after they are released. "You smell like the ass of a camel. Come. We will enjoy the baths together and talk." 

Directions are given for the stabling of their animals and servants. Their wares are brought to their rooms under their own guard, for no trader lets them fall from sight before the sale is made.

They take the waters with the sultan, food brought to break their fast, and inquire upon the health of his sons, many of whom are away, and his daughters. They speak of their travels, the adventures and travails that have beset them during the five months they have been on the road. The sultan is sympathetic. During his youth, he too rode the lands, bartering on behalf of his father, then the ruler, learning the cultures and languages from Marrakesh to Hindustan before his father's death placed him into power. 

"Will we see Ian?" Viggo asks, for the vizier is special to him.

"You have missed him by three days," the sultan tells him. "He is away to Libnan with Orlando these coming two weeks."

"Such is the pity," Sean says, genuinely disappointed for they are acquainted with Orlando. "We had greatly anticipated their company."

"Now the burden lies upon me to compensate," the sultan laughs. "You will rest before we discuss business. Afterwards, Dawud will join us to dine, and we will please you with our excellent entertainments. And then afterwards," he smiles silkily, "you may bed whomever has pleased your eyes. I promise not to disappoint."

"You never have," Sean grins.

 

*

 

After a few hours of much-welcomed sleep, Sean and Viggo rise so that the display of their wares and the barter can begin. It takes place within a billowing tent in the gardens of the palace, amid cushions and pipes and sweet tea, where the warm breeze is scented by nearby rose bushes and flowering jasmine. Many trinkets of gold from northwest Hindustan are purchased as gifts for the women of the harem – finger rings and arm bracelets decorated with precious stones, clasps to gather silks more brilliant than the tails of peacocks. Bought too are tea sets of fine porcelain and filigree, spices to flavor goat and lamb and make into medicine, physics of the poppy and hemp. After much wonderment has been expressed, the sultan waves for a chest of dinars to be brought, and there follows such haggling that voices rise and hands are thrown up until all concerned smile broadly and share the _narghile._

By nightfall, with their remaining goods securely packed away in their rooms, Sean and Viggo feast in the company of the sultan and his son Dawud, on goat and sweet meats drenched with honey and rose water. As they wash their hands afterwards, the musicians and dancers are called for.

"That one," Dawud murmurs to Viggo, his chin nodding towards Elijah as the musicians assemble on their cushions along the opposite wall of the dining hall. "With the sapphire eyes. You see?"

Viggo sees, as does his travel mate. "He is quite remarkable," Sean says quietly.

Dawud laughs. "He is a beauty, there is no doubt. But then, _youth_ is beauty. Was it not so for us as well?"

"I do not think you would have wished to carve my face in marble, as that one begs." Sean's eyes have not left Elijah's face.

"This pleases me," the sultan says. "My sons have spoken of this singer with great praise, yet it seems I am the last to know of whom they speak. Make music," he commands pleasantly.

The musicians begin to play, and the guests slip into silence so that they may listen and watch, the smoke from their pipes rising in ribbons towards the silken veils of the vented ceiling.

Presently, the dancing girls slip into the room, sinuous in their grace and movement. "Elijah," Dawud calls out as the women begin to turn and undulate before the men. "Sing for us while the women dance. Let our guests discover the magic you cast." He leans towards Viggo and Sean and speaks in low tones. "I swear before Allah, this boy has yet to know a woman. But when you hear him sing, you would think the history of men's fucking dwells his voice. I do not understand it nor do I need to. All I know is that it works upon me and my brothers like no aphrodisiac ever has. It is truly a gift."

Elijah looks up, unsmiling eyes briefly touching upon the faces of Dawud, the sultan and their guests. He knows that this glance has perhaps been too bold, but he forgets and then does not care. Since Orlando has left, he has spent too much time in thought, no longer distracted by heated nights of bare skin and hard muscle. His thoughts have carved into his heart the knowledge that he is a servant, nothing more, without choices, without freedoms. He is their songbird. The harem was only a cage within a cage. 

He begins to sing.

The night becomes something new to Sean and Viggo, something exotic and spellbinding and utterly erotic – the tinkle of ankle and wrist bracelets, of coins upon the beaded veils and scarves of the women mixing with the breathless sweetness of Elijah's voice, the steady beat of the _doumbek_ and the hum of zither and wind instruments. Golden hips sway, housing the hidden mysteries within, firm jeweled breasts rising and falling, all of it smothering their senses. Viggo looks over to Sean, and sees that while Sean's eyes travel over the women in hooded regard, they return to Elijah, again and again, narrowed, his lips parted. 

Viggo knows this look, knows it well. More than anything yet seen or heard this night, it is that look which burns through Viggo's loins like dragon fire.

"You feel it too," Dawud murmurs, passing to Viggo a pipe that burns kief. "You both do. Is he not a treasure?"

"He is," Sean breathes. His eyes slide towards Viggo where they are silently met behind a cloud of sweet smoke. 

The dancers sway, the smoke swirls in bands, the music charms, long and leisurely. In time, the sultan raises a hand, whereupon the music dies and the girls grow still, each one folding her hand into the other before they bow their heads and slip away through the folds of hanging tapestries.

"Our day has been long and fruitful," the sultan says, "but even I can see that were I to detain you any longer, the charms of a young woman would be lost upon you. Come, let us retire, for your journey continues tomorrow, and you need to rest with soft flesh as your pillow."

Servants rush to remove the pipes from interfering as they rise. Dawud is first to leave, for, by custom, the sultan never steps from the room first.

"Who among them caught your eye?" the sultan smiles softly as the three of them prepare to say goodnight. "I would wager the green-eyed Persian beauty."

Viggo nods his appreciation. "She danced with great passion," he murmurs. "She is perhaps too much a jewel for my meager efforts this night, too deserving of more attention than I can give."

"But certainly not for you, Sean," the sultan grins, turning to Viggo's companion. He stops, for Sean is looking elsewhere, across the room at the musicians. The sultan tracks his fervent gaze, a question forming on his brow before he looks back to Sean and steps towards him, leaning into his ear. "The boy?" he asks quietly, somewhat astonished.

Sean turns to him, his face flushing, words lost. He glances helplessly to Viggo.

Stepping close to the sultan, Viggo whispers, "It would honour us greatly if you were to make the boy a gift to us for one night. To sing, nothing more."

The sultan is no fool. His taste in the pleasures of love are decidedly in favour of the wet sweetness between a woman's legs and the soft sighs he is able to pull from their lips as he takes his pleasure. But he is not one to make judgments on the ways men choose to spill their seed, and intense longing is plain on Sean's face. These two merchants of the Silk Road, he reflects with amusement, have spent too much time in the company of men and forgotten a woman's charms. So be it. They have earned their night's pleasure. 

"I will send him to you," he says. "Who can say? You may yet know a virgin tonight."

 

*

 

Footsteps follow Elijah along the portico of the palace that leads to Dawud's apartments. He is alone, his zither held close to his chest, torches along the walls lighting his way, their shadows flickering upon the flagstone beneath his feet. He knows there are more than a dozen hidden eyes within the palace walls that mark his passage. He turns his ear towards the sound but does not look.

"Boy!"

At this, he stops and turns, stepping back towards the wall through cautious habit. A palace guard approaches.

"Come," Elijah is told, nothing more.

He follows the guard, heart beating more rapidly. Fear curdles in his throat, and his bowels feel sour.

They walk across the courtyard towards the sultan's palace rooms, and Elijah begins to tremble at the knowledge that his careless, errant glance to the sultan and his guests lies behind this summons. They enter a doorway which leads to a small eight-sided room, a _hashti_ with high walls and painted tiles, torches fastened at great height to cast light below. The sultan stands waiting, alone. With a hand, he dismisses the guard.

Elijah has dropped to his knees, head bowed. He curses the disregard and indifference he has shown, wondering if his life is now measured in heartbeats. 

The sultan circles him silently. "Rise," he finally says.

Elijah stands, head bowed. 

"Show your face," the sultan says without regard for pleasantness.

Elijah lifts his chin and stares straight ahead, fighting to keep his breathes even. 

"Yes," the sultan says, studying him. "I perhaps understand."

Elijah swallows, his eyes still fixed ahead.

"You would serve your sultan if he were to ask?"

Elijah nods sharply, fearfully.

"Your voice pleased me tonight."

Confusion floods through Elijah, relief chasing it, if briefly.

"You may speak."

"I am honoured and humbled by your praise, my Lord Sultan." Elijah bows his head quickly once more.

"You show me respect. That is good. It is proper." The sultan begins to circle him once again. "You pleased my guests as well." 

Elijah is silent.

"They have asked that you go to their rooms before they sleep so that you might sing for them."

Elijah nods once more, staring at the stone floor.

"Look at me."

Hesitantly, Elijah raises his head, his eyes finding the sultan's.

"You would go and sing for them. And if they ask you for other favours…" The sultan stops, fixing his eyes firmly on Elijah's. "You would oblige them most generously. Do you understand?"

For a brief and blessed moment, Elijah does not. But the sultan's gaze is unyielding and fierce, and Elijah now realizes his meaning. "Yes," he whispers.

The sultan fishes into the pouch fastened to his corded belt. He withdraws a coin and collecting Elijah's hand, presses it into the palm. "My appreciation," he says. "I know you will serve your sultan well. And this." He reaches once more into the pouch and withdraws a smaller one, drawn with a string and tied. "Do not think I am without sympathy. This may be of comfort to you. It is bitter, so wisdom says you should take it with honey. And only a little." The pouch is pressed into Elijah's palm, where he can feel a hardness within.

The sultan raises a hand, and from the darkness, the guard returns. "You will be taken so that you might clean yourself. Then my guard will escort you to their rooms." He turns to leave. "Oh," he adds, over his shoulder. "The one with the shorter hair goes by the name of Sean. The other is called Viggo." 

And then he is gone.

 

*

 

Elijah stands within a small room, silk tapestries dividing the space where he might wash. A basin and full ewer stand on a table, a pot in the corner for evacuation. He slowly places his zither against the wall and pulls his tunic over his head. While trembling fingers fumble with the ties of his loose trousers, a man slips within the hangings, a glass in one hand bearing honey and a standing spoon, a stoppered cruet in the other. He says nothing but waits for Elijah to take them, then slips away as silently as he came once Elijah has.

Elijah looks at them and then turns to place them on the table beside the ewer. He finishes removing his trousers, standing naked in the flickering light, then squats to make his toilet. He cleans afterwards with water and a cloth and takes up the bottle, removing the stopper to sniff the liquid within. It is oil fragranced with gardenia, a scent he recognizes from the harem but not from the gardens, as it is not grown in this land. He pours a little into his hand before returning the bottle to the table so that he might rub his palms together. Reaching down, he collects himself and spreads the oil over his flaccid penis, his smooth testes, back behind. He stops to pour more oil so that he might prepare himself. He gasps softly as his fingers enter, tears springing briefly to his eyes, for he has known no man except Orlando. When he has finished, he cleans his hands and dries them carefully.

The pouch given by the sultan lies beside the washing bowl, along with the gold dinar. Elijah stares at them for a moment, then opens the pouch and removes from it a small tear bottle of blue glass, its top plugged with a cut of cork. He removes the cork and looks within at the powder it contains. He has seen this before, coveted by men who visited the harem as guests of the sultan's sons. It is powder of the poppy, and those who took it became languid, their manhoods often failing to rise. But it did not seem to concern them, for they lay smiling while they watched the women touch each other.

Elijah takes up the spoon and taps the powder onto the thick gold syrup it holds. It darkens in the wetness and sinks into it, and he brings the spoon to his mouth and feeds himself. He grimaces where the bitterness has not mixed with the sweet. He dips the spoon back into the honey and taps again from the bottle, taking that onto his tongue as well. He waits, but his senses feel unchanged.

He dresses himself, carefully pocketing the dinar. He picks up the bottle once more, this time tapping powder onto the back of his hand. He brings it to his nose; he has seen this in the harem, how the poppy is breathed in. He does so, inhaling all of it, and for a moment, his senses go light and he fears he might fall. But the lightness passes and in its place is a warm peace, a lack of interest. He watches his hands replace the cork stopper, return the bottle to the pouch, the pouch to his pocket. He picks up his zither and steps outside the tapestries where the guard has been waiting. 

"I am ready," he says.

 

**Part Two**

He is brought to the doorway of the room the sultan has given to the visiting merchants. He steps within and stands silently. He watches the men as they lounge unaware, these traders who think nothing of corrupting a young man's virtue. They are speaking with one another in low voices. Shadows fly across the walls from the torchlight; breezes flutter the drapery. All of this has become far removed for Elijah; the poppy has found his blood, and he floats outside his senses. He sees their heads turn towards him, slow smiles forming. Friendly smiles, serpent smiles. It does not matter. They mean nothing to him because he means nothing to them.

"Come, Elijah," the one called Sean says, an arm outspread to bid him in. 

Elijah walks into the room and down two steps to where the cushions and bedding are their couches. 

"Please," Sean says. "By my side."

Elijah sits where he is bidden, his zither on his lap. Sean reaches to remove it, his eyes a question. "May I?" he asks, and when Elijah nods, Sean takes the instrument and rests it on the raised floor behind them.

"You do not wish me to sing," Elijah says and it is not a question.

"You have sung tonight already," Sean says, "and pleased us with your perfection."

"A perfection you continue to grace us with," Viggo adds.

Elijah sighs. So it is to be, he reflects.

Viggo reclines before him, his hand curled about the handle of a brass ewer inlaid with silver inscriptions. From it, he pours wine into a goblet, then sits forward to pass it to Elijah. "We would drink to the music you will make," he smiles slowly, and lifts his own goblet, adding a short upward thrust to prompt Elijah to join him. 

Elijah lifts the vessel to his lips, but he watches Viggo without constraint. While he is mindful of the sultan's words, this man is no prince, no sultan. Elijah may take his fill of him, the blue ice of his stare, the mark upon his lip, the curl at one edge of his mouth. Elijah tilts the goblet and drains it. It is sour on his tongue after the sweetness of honey that has lingered there.

Sean is deluded by his fantasy, one in which he may bed this intoxicating young man because the desire is mutual. He has not missed the rapidity with which Elijah has consumed the wine. "Do you come of your own accord?" he asks.

 _What does it matter?_ Elijah thinks. He sees the curl on Viggo's lip pull higher. "Yes," he lies.

Sean stirs beside him and takes the goblet from Elijah's hand. After placing it on the floor, he leans forward once more, a hand pushing into the cushion back. "May I?" Sean asks again, his mouth hovering over Elijah's.

Elijah makes no effort to reply. He stares into Sean's eyes as if looking for something that is not there, then to his mouth. He feels as a rabbit before a hawk, inevitably to be torn and eaten. 

Sean shivers from the openness of Elijah's unflinching gaze and understands this to mean yes. He slowly closes the distance between them, and his lips press to spread Elijah's mouth open, his tongue snaking delicately against the softness inside, opening wider so that Elijah will do the same. He cups Elijah's head with one hand; he finds Elijah's pliancy an invitation, a surrender, and it drives heat into his groin.

 _How very different from Orlando his mouth is,_ Elijah thinks, the fullness of Sean's tongue tracing the tender flesh inside his lips, dancing upon his own tongue. Not as soft, not of the same taste or smell. Not welcome, an invasion. He is grateful that Sean is not being forceful, for there is a hardness to Sean's face, both of touch and look, that disquiets him. 

Elijah hears the rustle of movement as Viggo slips forward, and he feels each foot lifted as a sandal is removed. Soon, the cushion dips at his side as Viggo settles close.

Sean pulls away. "You are lovely," he whispers, and Elijah stares up at him, lips full and wet from being kissed, eyes liquid in the torchlight. Sean turns towards Viggo, who smiles and silently they come together, tongues tangling more forcefully, reaching for each other, gripping and pulling. Elijah watches, his head sinking onto a cushion, eyes absorbing their display of ardor. He can see a tender intimacy beneath the hunger, and he wonders how he and Orlando would seem to others if they were watched. 

Their kiss ends, and Viggo descends slowly to mouth Elijah's neck and jaw. Against every reason or desire, Elijah is reminded of Orlando in the tenderness of the touch, and his eyes flutter shut at the thought even as his back arches.

"We would have you be with us," Sean tells Elijah, and both men have their hands on him, Sean's fingers creeping beneath his tunic while Viggo caresses his thigh, tracing lightly over his groin and up to the ties at his waist. 

"We would have you pleasure us so that we may pleasure you." Sean murmurs. "We would be gentle, my beauty, for you look unaccustomed to our ways. We would enter you quietly and make your body hum as if it were our kithara. You would sing beneath our hands and mouths and cocks, but softly, a beautiful sound. Let us remove these garments so that we may take our fill of you."

Elijah yields without words or effort as they move his body. His arms are placed high upon the cushions so that his tunic may be drawn up over his face and tied hair; his hips are lifted so that Viggo may move to the floor to pull each trouser leg down and away. When they are finished, he shines golden and limp on the silk and velvet coverings of the couch, arms where the men have left them, his circumcised sex slumbering smooth and small in its darkened bed.

"Viggo," Sean breathes as he takes Elijah in, and Viggo sits back on his haunches, hands smoothing over Elijah's shins and calves, eyes on both Elijah and Sean.

"You never mistake," he says. "You have the gift of knowing."

"There are things men do to help each other," Sean says to Elijah, smiling under Viggo's appreciation. "Things with their mouths that make a man ripen." Viggo has begun to kiss Elijah along the inside of his calf, to his knee, his hand moving Elijah's thighs apart. 

"We will show you so that you may learn." Sean's hand unfastens the leather belt he wears so that he may cast it aside and allow his shirt to fall open. Quickly, he loosens the ties on his trousers and draws himself out. 

Viggo brings his hand up to stroke along Sean's hip and ruck his trousers down further. 

"Come to me," Sean murmurs, "and watch." He lies back along the cushion next to Elijah, slipping an arm under his shoulders to draw him in. He turns his hips out so that Viggo may find him with his mouth. His sex has filled, and Elijah distantly wonders what further ripening Sean could need as Viggo's mouth opens and takes Sean in. "Sweet lover," Sean gasps as his head falls back against the cushion. He turns his face towards Elijah, a smile of abandon growing, and he dips forward to inhale his hair. "Touch me while I am being pleasured," he urges in a breathless plea. "I need to know your hands."

Elijah turns his face into Sean's neck so that he might hide his sight, his breath against flushed skin. He should not be here. Viggo's mouth on Sean is too bold a sight, too intimate. He lifts his heavy, leaden arm so that his fingers find the hair of Sean's chest, creeping gently through it.

"Watch," Sean tells him, flexing his shoulder against Elijah's cheek to make him look. "See what he does."

Elijah gazes dully at Sean's cock as it slips between Viggo's lips. He should not be here.

"Touch his head," Sean tells him.

Elijah tentatively reaches for Viggo. The hair beneath his fingers is silky and fine. 

They remain like this, the three of them, wet sounds filling the room, groans and whisperings being uttered save for Elijah, who is silent. He has closed his eyes. They remain like this for an eternity until Sean finally puts his hand over Elijah's to tug at Viggo's hair. He pulls away. "Let Elijah put his mouth on me," he says.

Viggo looks at the boy, at his shuttered eyes and reluctance. It is a certainty that their pleasure will be fulfilled this night, but there are many roads to that destination. "No, Sean," he says. "It is too much. He is timid and would feel shame."

Sean exhales, long and slow. "If it must be," he sighs. "I would give the world for your sweet lips to be upon me, precious one, but only from your desire, not mine. There is time; the night is not yet deep." He frees himself from Elijah's embrace, leaving him reclined upon the cushions, trading places with Viggo so that he kneels between Elijah's legs. Viggo crawls to lie beside Elijah, sliding an arm around his shoulders. 

"This is all new for him," he says for Sean's benefit, watching Elijah who is watching him. "The ways of men should be enjoyed, not reviled. Is that not so, my pretty?"

 _That is only so when men come together of their own accord,_ Elijah thinks. "That is so," he whispers.

Sean has retrieved a vial of oil and lifts Elijah's leg, resting it over Viggo's thigh so that the boy may be opened. 

Elijah arches to pull away, but they regard it only as trembling passion.

"He will enter you," Viggo says, his lips smoothing over Elijah's temple. "He will be gentle. This I know, for I have allowed him to enter me. In the beginning, it may not be as you want, but that will pass. Do not look away from me. I wish to know your eyes as you receive a man for the first time." 

Sean lifts Elijah's other leg behind the knee and presses oily fingers into Elijah's hole. "You have prepared the way," Sean says, with some surprise. "You are not so inexperienced as to not know the necessity." 

"I served in the harem as a singer," Elijah gasps, "and became acquainted with the manner of many things."

Sean takes himself in his hand and presses the head of his cock against Elijah's opening. He looks down, watching himself as his hips press forward slowly, Elijah's pelvis captured in his large hands. The sight and the sensation as flesh yields to flesh beggars his ability to form words, and he grunts through shuttered breaths to keep from plunging and hurting.

Elijah whimpers, willing himself to open and not fight, his neck arching and his eyes wincing tight. 

"Your eyes, Elijah," Viggo reminds him. "Give them to me."

But Elijah will not. He stares upwards, panting as Sean presses forward until he can go no further. There Sean rests, Elijah's leg pinned against his elbow, leaning forward, feeling the muscles fight to relax around his cock while he studies Elijah's face. Viggo's hand slips between them, closing around Elijah's shrunken member, palming, pulling so that it may come to life.

"He opens freely," Sean tells Viggo. "He gives himself freely."

Viggo looks up at Sean, his chin coming up, questing for a kiss. Their mouths lock wetly, and Sean begins short slow thrusts, like waves upon sand, his body in exquisite union with both men. When they break for breath, they turn as one towards Elijah so that they might watch him. Sean brings his free hand up to pluck at a nipple.

Elijah regards them. He feels them. He feels the largeness of Sean within him, his fingers upon his chest. He feel Viggo's arm beneath him, cradling his shoulder. His body feels them, but his mind does not. They may ride him at their leisure, he thinks, but he is being ridden like a reluctant virgin in the harem, like a mongrel bitch in an alley. It means nothing.

Sean leans back, lengthening his angle as he finds his knees, pulling Elijah's hips onto his cock.

Viggo curls his hand around Elijah's neck, fingers cradling it, thumb stroking his jaw. He can feel the steady beat of Elijah's pulse. 

And it is unnaturally slow.

"Your heart beats as if you slumber, my beauty." 

Blue eyes drift over to his and suddenly, the enlarged blackness of them tell him something new. "Have you taken a potion?" he asks.

"Yes."

The corners of Viggo's lips curl into a small smile, but there is a frown too. "Was the thought of being with us so very unsettling, then?"

"No."

"Why, then?"

"To forget another." 

"What other has your heart, then, my beauty? One with whom you make music?"

"Yes, but not of the kind you mean."

"Not a player, then. Someone of the palace? A man servant, perhaps?"

Elijah's eyes drift away. He has said too much.

Viggo suspects he has arrived very close to the truth. "Elijah, do not turn your eyes from me." Viggo gently presses Elijah's chin back towards him. The youth is so compliant, so much to be enjoyed. "Pray whom?"

"None."

"Elijah," Viggo laughs. "The sun cannot sail backwards. Pray whom?"

"Another."

"Ah, a secret lover," Viggo smiles, one hand continuing to pull. It has taken some time, but Elijah's cock is beginning to fill.

"We would have you enjoy your time with us, Elijah," Sean says from where he kneels. "We would want it to last for you." He returns one hand beside Elijah's head and leans forward, reaching with the other to the back of Elijah's neck and removing the adorned braided leather string that collects his hair. Sean straightens back up and begins to palm Elijah's balls, lifting them so that he might tie the string around them and his cock.

Viggo holds Elijah's cock up and watches Sean affix the thong. "That is a beautiful binding," he observes of the intricate bead work of many colored smooth glass beads.

Elijah whimpers.

"A gift from your lover, perhaps?"

Elijah writhes on the pivot of Sean's cock, grimacing in discomfort.

Viggo looks at it again.

"Someone who values you very much, I think," Viggo says. 

"Speak no more," Elijah pleads.

"A generous benefactor," Viggo says softly at the quality of the stones, running his thumb over the head of Elijah's cock.

"I beg you, speak no more." 

"Who is your lover?" he demands softly. "Tell me."

Elijah closes his eyes, then opens them widely on a gasp, as if he has seen something he would have wished never to see.

"Tell me, Elijah. Or should I ask the sultan?"

"He knows nothing!" Elijah says, turning to Viggo in alarm, cursing inwardly at what he has allowed to be understood, what he has failed to forestall.

"Then reveal."

Elijah is in anguish, torn by loyalty and betrayal. "I cannot," he utters.

"You cannot? Or you will not?"

"I cannot. It would be a betrayal. It would be a danger."

Viggo is amused by the young man's notion of danger. He supposes the whole world is a danger when one is a servant. "A danger, Elijah? For whom? Perhaps this is something we should know." He smiles the false smile of one who cares little if he is found to feign sympathy. 

Elijah grimaces, his eyes pooling. "Let us not speak of this," he begs.

"Oh, let us," Viggo grins. "Your secret will be locked away. But we must know for _our_ own safety. Who is your lover?"

"Stop, Viggo," Sean says. "You are spoiling his vigor. See how he fails."

Viggo doesn't need to look to know that Elijah's erection has wilted; the evidence is plain within his hand. But he does look, and sees the tie again, knotted on its testicles, shimmering in the torchlight. What began as a game, as thoughtless teasing on his part, is changing into something new. An uncertainty begins to settle upon him. _Someone of the palace._

"A prince?" Viggo asks, looking down at Elijah, now with no smile. He remembers Dawud's fond words of Elijah's regard throughout the harem, and he considers once more the value of the hair string.

A pained cry spills from Elijah's lips.

Viggo's hand stills on Elijah's cock. "Sean," he warns. 

Sean slows his thrusts, staring at Elijah intently.

"A prince of the palace?" Viggo asks.

Elijah says nothing, only stares into his eyes.

"Which prince?" Viggo asks, releasing Elijah's cock. Sean has stopped thrusting.

 _"Which of the sultan's sons?"_ Viggo says forcefully, shaking Elijah's head. 

"Stop!" Elijah cries out fearfully. 

"Is it Dawud? Haroun? Orlando?"

Elijah's eyes close wet, then flash open again.

"Elijah," Viggo says, gripping Elijah's head in his hands, each word punctuated. _"Is…it…Orlando??"_

It is so small for a betrayal, Elijah thinks, no more than a twitch of his head. But within his hands, Viggo feels it and whispers, "No!"

"Oh, fuck," Sean groans, pulling out of Elijah's body, and sagging to his haunches. "Sweet fuck." He gently takes Elijah's leg from Viggo's hip and with the other, closes them, his hands holding them tightly together as he lays his head on Elijah's thighs. 

"You must never tell!" Elijah pleads to Viggo with a whisper.

"Elijah," Sean says, lifting his head and creeping upwards over Elijah's body. Elijah's eyes drift to him with fear. "It is _you_ who must never tell what happened here with us. Never speak of this."

"Never!" Elijah breathes with certainty.

"Never," Viggo tells him. "We are indebted to Orlando for a great bravery on his part. And we are now indebted to you." He reaches behind himself blindly for a silk covering and pulls it across so that he may hide Elijah's nakedness. "Come," he says, his arm about Elijah's shoulders drawing him forward. "Sit."

"But what of the sultan?" Sean says, looking to Viggo as he tucks himself away. "What if he should tell Orlando that we asked for Elijah to be with us? What if he should tell anyone? What of the guard? It will become known, Viggo. I do not doubt how it cannot."

"We will tell him that it was never our intention to despoil the boy," Viggo tells him. "We only asked that he sing for us."

Elijah has pulled the covering over himself and tucked into a ball, reaching to remove the string from his genitals. He lays his head upon the couch next to Viggo's thigh. He is so very tired.

"He will not believe it. He will fault Elijah."

"Then we must be sure to _persuade,"_ Viggo says. 

"Orlando will learn."

"If he does, I will vouch for your honour," Elijah breathes. "I will tell him what we have agreed, that you were drunk and lustful of each other and wanted my music, that you enjoyed the pleasures of each other while I watched." This would be truth, if only a fragment, he tells himself. 

"Yes," Sean agrees. "Tell him we were ridiculous. He knows us. He will understand your meaning."

Safety has returned to Elijah's world. "I will," he whispers. 

"Orlando is very special to us," Viggo says, petting Elijah's hair. "Believe us when we say that we would never have meddled with your honour if we had known you were his beloved. Never."

Elijah sighs. Were it not for the poppy, he would not say the words that now come. "You meddle with the honour of every young man you trade for. I was only the lesson to reveal that truth." 

There is silence in the room as his words hang. Far away, a peacock cries.

"Yes," Viggo says. He would agree to whatever Elijah were to tell him at that moment. "It has been a bitter lesson, but for you above all, Elijah. What do you ask of us?"

If they were able to give it, Elijah knows his demand. But they have no power to oblige him. "That you sow a thought," he replies instead.

"Tell us which thought," Sean asks.

"That I may one day serve the sultan as a free man. That I may one day stand before my prince without bondage."

The room is silent. In time, Viggo reaches for Elijah's tunic and trousers. "Come," he says. "Let us dress you as a free man should be dressed." He slips his arms around Elijah and helps him to sit up. Then kneeling at his feet, he eases each foot into a trouser leg and helps Elijah to stand. "Lean on me," he murmurs, for Elijah is unsteady. He pulls the linen over the smooth curve of Elijah's buttocks and draws the strings together, fashioning a tie. "What is this?" he asks as his fingers smooth the fabric and find the pouch within the pocket. 

"It is the powder," Elijah replies. "I will return it to the sultan on the morrow, and let him know there was no need of it."

"Any that was lost was taken by Sean and me, if he should inquire," Viggo says. "We wrestled you in our mischief and found it."

Elijah nods. He is so tired. "I would sleep here," he says, and Viggo nods and strokes his hair. 

 

*

 

As dawn breaks, Elijah lifts his head from the cushions on which he passed the night. Sean sits across from him, watching him stir. 

"Before this hour," Sean says, "I could not take my eyes from you. Now I can barely look at you without shame." 

Elijah smiles weakly and pushes himself upright. "I would want that thought to fly from you now. It will curdle if it lingers."

"You are exceedingly kind, Elijah, yet you have no reason for it. I understand why you are special to Orlando. He is the most fortunate of men."

"In his company, I am," Elijah replies. 

It is time that he go.

 

* 

 

Before the sun has reached midmorning, the sultan has sent another guard, asking that Elijah give him audience. 

"You served me well," the sultan says when Elijah is brought to the stable where he grooms a favorite horse. "Before the merchants resumed their journey, they told me that you sang like a night bird and tolerated their lack of wit with great grace and humour."

Elijah nods, his head low.

"They told me that they wanted to buy you except that you pleaded to stay with your sultan." He smiles. "I think they told me tales because they are so enamored of you and because they had enjoyed too much wine and hashish. They told me that they stole the poppy from you as well. And yet they did not steal your virtue." 

Elijah's heart quickens and his eyes blink wide, but he does not look up.

The sultan turns to him from his task of burying a bit in the mouth of his stallion. "You are very clever, Elijah. You did not disappoint either them or me, and yet you remained untainted by their perversion, which ran hot last night. Such cleverness might have use for me yet. Here. This is your reward." He passes another pouch to Elijah, this time one which jingles with the rub of many dinars within. "It is a gift from the merchants, that you may buy yourself something special. What would you choose to buy with it, Elijah?" 

_My freedom,_ Elijah thinks, but this he cannot say. His time to bargain with the sultan may yet come, but it is not now. 

"Only your grace," he replies. "And the opportunity to continue studying with Prince Orlando, who has been kind to share his books and his knowledge with me." 

"So be it," the sultan says, duly flattered, and returns to admire his horse. "Such a small thing to ask for." 

Elijah waits while the sultan croons to gentle his fussy stallion. Almost as an after-thought, the sultan glances to him and waves his hand. "You may go," he says. "Go read your books." Elijah's failure to answer his question has not been lost to him. When his son returns, they will speak.

Elijah hastens to flee, his breath leaving his lungs in a long, steady exhale, his hand holding the pouch of coins close to his chest to keep the sound from being known. After night falls, he will bury it beneath the roses until Orlando returns and they may keep it safe.

 

*

 

Elijah lines with the other palace servants on the afternoon that the caravan returns to the courtyard amid a cloud of galloping dust. Orlando slides from his horse and begins at once to direct what must be done: chests and wrappings to his rooms, a message to his father that he has returned and desires to meet, food and libation for himself and the vizier, whom he helps from his horse. 

"These two weeks passed satisfactorily?" he politely asks Elijah in the presence of Ian and those scurrying about them.

Elijah glances upwards, at the soiled and bearded face of his lover, creased and darkened from days riding in the sun, "Most pleasantly," he replies. 

"I will want music later this evening," Orlando says. "Then I may tell you of our adventures. Would you care to join us, Ian?" Orlando turns to the vizier. 

"I would defer to the sultan's needs," Ian replies, accepting a cup of sweetened tea offered to him, "after which I will retire early." As Elijah flashes a glance upwards to him, Ian winks. "Delightful seeing you, Elijah."

"I am so grateful that you returned safely," Elijah replies, eyes averted.

"Come while I walk," Orlando says after Ian has departed, taking as one the two steps up to his apartments. Elijah rushes to follow. "I must report to my father of my travels and dine with him." He angles his head back towards Elijah and says quietly, "You are a vision for my eyes, Elijah. I have thought of this moment and nothing else for this half month."

Elijah keeps his head down and smiles.

"And later I must tell you who I met along the road. Old friends who passed this way while I was in Libnan. They spoke of you with great favour. I look forward to your story of their visit."


End file.
